


Ang Tugon ng Mga Alon

by maraanan



Category: Noli Me Tangere & Related Works - José Rizal
Genre: Canon Continuation, M/M, depending on how canon you think makamisa is, ft. Emogani, mild descriptions of injury and violence, or Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-09-28 11:19:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10097765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maraanan/pseuds/maraanan
Summary: Before Isagani slips out during the night for the uprising, he leaves a note for Padre Florentino:do not wait for me. After everything that had happened he had found himself lost, with no purpose, no aim; the only thing left was his patriotic duty. And so that was his intention, to die for his motherland.Isagani’s plan would have carried out, if only Basilio hadn’t stepped in.





	1. Isang Pahimakas

**Author's Note:**

> Both Isagani and Basilio are described to be rather serious people, but if you read the passage in which they interact with each other (i.e., the chapter about the bapor tabo’s lower deck), you will find that they’re amiable with each other, and even laugh and crack jokes. Additionally, I think we can all agree that based on several scenes, Isagani can be quite the emotional person. Thus the characterization in this fic.
> 
> Thank you so much to my beta and good friend, [acogna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acogna), who saved my ass multiple times and deserves sorbetes for all her efforts.

Isagani did not write poems anymore.

The fact worried his uncle. His nephew was a poet, and were not poets at the prime of inspiration when they were at the peak of emotion? The past’s events on Isagani had been harsh—harrowing and cruel, even. It pained Padre Florentino to watch his nephew suffer so, and it pained him more to watch Isagani abandon his beloved art.

“Isagani,” said Padre Florentino, laying a frail, gentle hand on his nephew’s shoulder. Isagani sat motionless at his desk, staring out his open window, the sea before him. “Why don’t you pick up your pen again, iho?”

Isagani did not answer. His eyes, staring out into the sea, were empty like lifeless glass. Then he shook himself and ripped his gaze away from the water. “Forgive me, Tiyo,” he said. Nowadays his voice was much quieter, softer. “I have so much work to do.”

“Isagani—”

But Isagani had already stood and taken his hat from the desk, making his way to the door without saying goodbye, undoubtedly leaving the house to start the day at his work as a tribunal clerk.

Padre Florentino was wrong; Isagani was not at the peak of his emotion. To put it bluntly, Isagani felt no emotion at all—it was absent from his mind and his heart, absent from every bone in his body. His heart beat mechanically, with no drive, no passion, no purpose except to function; it was worse than his first vacation at home without Paulita, for Isagani had lost his love, his studies, his friends, and above all, he had lost all hope that things would return to the way they were. And so the words did not flow.

The door shut behind Isagani. Padre Florentino was left alone in the room, with no one for company but the song of waves crashing against the cliffs.

 

* * *

 

The sun was sinking down the horizon while Isagani walked home later that day. It was another monotonous day at work, another reminder of how instead of being the brilliant lawyer he once dreamed he would be, he was instead working for one, keeping his files and documents—not even for an interesting lawyer, at that, a senyor boring as the dullest textbook.

But no matter how frustrating and tedious and uninteresting his occupation was, Isagani was grateful for it. It was not the money he needed—he could depend on his uncle if he wanted to—it was the distraction. Something to do, something to think about.

(Because the worst parts were always the nights. Hours after dark spent in bed but with eyes wide open, unable to sleep. When he was alone, lying still, there was nothing to keep his mind from going to dark places, dark thoughts, dark memories. On some nights, tears of frustration prickled at the corner of Isagani’s eyes—he just wanted to _sleep_.)

On his way home, Isagani did not stop to admire the sunset; he did not stop to contemplate how it painted the sky a beautiful rose color, how the shining blue-green of the sea contrasted perfectly with the orange sun. He walked on.

That was when it happened.

“ _Psst_ … Senyor,” said a voice from the shadows, coming from the trees lining the side of the dirt path. “Senyor Florentino.”

Isagani halted.

“May I speak to you, Senyor?” hissed the man. Half of his face was hidden under the shadows of his salakot.

“What do you need from me?” Isagani said coldly. “And how do you know my name?”

“You are Senyor Isagani, the very same one who was jailed along with the other students about a year ago, yes?”

Isagani turned his head left and right to see if anyone else was in the vicinity. There was no one except for him and the mysterious man; Isagani always took the road less people traveled. He stepped a few hesitant steps closer to the man amongst the trees. “Yes,” he said.

“I have some information that may interest you, Senyor,” said the man. “But you must come here first.”

Isagani narrowed his eyes in suspicion at the man. Then, he thought, what did I have to lose? I live my life meaninglessly and here comes, out of the blue, something interesting. He took a step forward into the shadows.

The man spoke very softly and hurriedly, with his salakot pulled over by his hand to conceal his face. His words were quick and Isagani did not catch most of what he said, only certain parts. It poured ice down his spine nonetheless. _Uprising_ , heard Isagani. _Nearby town. In a month. Here are the directions_ …

A piece of paper was pushed into his hands. Isagani unfolded it and found, written in small yet disorderly penmanship, a date and an address.

“If you know of anyone else who would be willing to join the cause—” said the man, and Isagani’s head snapped up to his, his own hands still shaking, “—please spread the word.”

Isagani had no words. He was remembering, remembering—fury hotter than the May sun; a dank, grimy cell; Juanito’s hand on Paulita’s shoulder; a lamp; a bomb—

“—We know that you will not betray us,” the man continues. He had been talking. “Until then, Senyor.”

The man backed away and gave Isagani one last nod before he turned and disappeared into the deep thicket.

The sun had already set by then. Isagani hurried home. He reasoned with himself that it was not wise to stroll around while it was dark, but he could not stop the way his heart rattled so wildly in his chest. He arrived at the house sweaty and rigid, the piece of paper clenched around his tight, shaking fist.

“Welcome back, Isagani,” his uncle greeted with a kind smile. “Are you well?”

Isagani did not reply. He went straight to his room without a word.

With a sigh, Padre Florentino withdrew into his own quarters. That night, Isagani fell asleep to the soft and subdued songs of his uncle’s harmonium, floating through the walls of the old house.

 

* * *

 

The man’s words rang throughout Isagani’s head day and night.

He paced back and forth in his room, his arms rigid at his sides, remembering the friars’ sneers, their crushed dreams of the Academy of Castilian, how his life had turned entirely around after his arrest. He laid still in his bed, unable to sleep, remembering the gossip of the family he had stayed with in Manila, finding out the truth, and then regretting. Here was an opportunity to do what he was unable to do before: extract revenge. He would get arrested, definitely, ex-communicated or killed, even, but what did it matter? Isagani had lost nearly everything; the only thing that remained was his country. All his life he had dreamed of a noble death, of spilling his blood for these islands and her people. Here was an opportunity. Here was his chance to make his life worth _something_.

A million years ago, Isagani spoke of water. Water was calm, water was peaceful, water could drown out wine and beer and bring death to fire. Heated, it becomes steam, suffocating and boiling.

Isagani looked out the window. There was the moon and its stars, beating brightly against the dark sky.

That night he did not pack many things. A candle would draw attention, the heavens' starlight would have to do. There were no weapons for him to bring, anyway; where would you find a revolver in a priest’s house?

The next morning, a servant found a note folded on the desk in Isagani’s room. He presented it to the priest. Padre Florentino read the note, dismissed the house-boy, and spent the rest of the day sitting on the cliffs looking out to the sea.

 

* * *

  

The uprising did not go well. It was a goddamn shame, a tragedy, even, but it would be all right. Isagani’s fellow rebels, wounded and bleeding, assured one another this was a necessary step forward. Unsuccessful, but got the point across—the Indios were angry.

Most have admitted this to themselves a long time. After all, it was a minor uprising, in a sleepy provincial town. What were their bolo knives compared to the Guardia Civil’s arms? Only the most idealistic hearts believed in their victory.

(Isagani used to be called idealistic. It wasn’t a compliment. He used to be called naive, foolish, sheltered. He used to wonder why others opposed it so much—why settle when their future could be so much brighter?)

(Now he understood.)

Isagani collapsed behind an overturned cart, clenching his wounded side. His borrowed itak fell from his weak grasp and onto the ground. Gunshots boomed through the air, but Isagani was not afraid. His palm holding his side, when drawn back, was red with blood.

There was a coughing sound.

Isagani looked to his side. There was somebody there, lying flat on his back, his clothes so dirty and muddy that it was difficult to distinguish him from the ground at first glance. He was coughing up horribly and bleeding all over. Isagani crawled over to him, wincing.

“Senyor... Florentino.” The man’s voice was mangled and gurgling.

 _How do you know my name?_ Isagani was about to ask, but Isagani was smart, a quick thinker. He blinked at the man in realization. “You… you gave me the note. A month ago,” he said.

“Yes. Yes.” The man coughed again. “You came. You did not report… anything. I knew we could… trust in you.”

Isagani nodded. He wanted to speak but it was getting harder and harder to do so. Pain flared in his side and he hissed between gritted teeth. Never in his life had he felt such physical pain.

“The… end,” the man said. “It is near. Our end…”

He was going to die here. For a split second the thought of his uncle ran through his mind—his poor kind soul would be heartbroken. Guilt coursed through his bones. How ignorant he has been! To think that all has been taken from him, ignoring the man who has always been kind to him and has always cared for him. _Forgive me_ , Isagani thought. _My love for my homeland requires sacrifice. I die with no apology expressed to you_ …

Isagani cried out in pain. It hurt, it hurt too much.

 _Basilio_ , he thought, and almost surprised himself. He has not allowed himself to think about Basilio in a long time. _Basilio. He would know how to save this man, and heal my own wounds. If he were here…_

Everything faded to black.

 

* * *

 

Isagani woke up.

He was lying in a clean bed instead of dying out on the streets—had it all been a dream? But no, this bed was not his and so was this room; it was smaller and musty and outside the window was not the sea. Isagani brought his hand to the place where he had been wounded, and instead of drawing back blood his palm was met with gauze. There was still some pain, yes, but he did not feel like he was about to die anymore. He had been bandaged. Even the minor cuts around his body had been attended to.

Somebody had saved him.

He heard a snore. Isagani rolled on his side, careful to mind his wound. Beside the other side of the bed, sleeping on a chair and laying his head on his folded arm on the side table, was Basilio.

Isagani held his breath. It was definitely him. Isagani did not have his spectacles and his sight was blurred, and Basilio had changed a bit, with less tidy hair and cheeks more sunken than before, but it was him. Isagani and Basilio had been best friends, and he would know him anywhere.

What was he supposed to do? He had not seen Basilio ever since… Isagani shook himself. Now was not the time to think about that.

Gingerly, he reached out and shook Basilio gently by the shoulder. “Basilio,” he said softly. “Basilio, wake up.”

Basilio’s eyes blearily opened. He sat up straight, rubbing his eyes. “Isagani,” he murmured. “I fell asleep. I was supposed to be taking care of you. I’m sorry.”

Isagani blinked at him. He really did not know what to do. Part of him wanted to attack Basilio in a hug, part of him wanted to break down and cry. Instead he blurted out, “You have drool on your face.”

“Wha—” Basilio brought his hand up to his chin, and felt the dried-up trail of saliva. He groaned and wiped his face with his sleeve.

It brought a smile to Isagani’s face. A faint one, but a smile nonetheless.

Basilio’s features wrinkled. “Do not tease me,” he said.

“I’m not teasing you,” said Isagani. After a while, he added, “Where are we?”

“An inn. In the neighboring town,” Basilio said, and handed Isagani his spectacles from the side table. Isagani thanked him and put them on. The lenses were cracked. “I tried to do what I could to repair your glasses. At least they’re clean, now. Last night they had a lot of… well.”

 _Blood_ , he meant to say. Isagani knew he did. “The man,” he said, remembering last night. How dark it was… “The man who laid on the ground beside me. Where is he?”

Basilio closed his eyes, his brows knitted in what looked like remorse. “I could only carry one person,” he said. “Was he your friend?”

Isagani thought about this. With guilt he admitted to himself he did not even know the man’s name. “I knew him.”

A short silence.

“The inn, you said?” Isagani asked. “I would have thought this was your house. Where do you live, then?”

Basilio turned away, and started organizing his bottles of medicine. “Nowhere,” he said. “I… travel around.”

“Really?” said Isagani. “And you are still a doctor?”

“I’m not a _doctor_ ,” Basilio said, with some bitterness. “I did not finish, remember?”

“But you help people,” said Isagani. He motioned his head towards Basilio’s bottles. “You have your medicines. And bandages.”

“Fine, maybe I do,” Basilio huffed. “I have to do something for a living.”

“All right,” said Isagani, deciding not to push it. Clearly, Basilio was bothered. He shouldn’t have mentioned the doctor thing. “How did you find me?”

“Well,” Basilio said. “Like I’ve told you, I go around. I was passing through this town. I was just leaving, when the uprising broke out… I thought I saw your face among the rebels.”

He stopped talking. He took up a worn, beat-up briefcase and started setting his equipment inside. Isagani pursed his lips. “And then?” he prompted.

Basilio continued putting away his things, not looking at Isagani. “I looked for you,” he said.

All this time Isagani had assumed Basilio did not care for him, anymore. Basilio never visited him after what had happened, even if he knew where his town was. Basilio never wrote. Hearing those words… Isagani forced his eyes shut. He could not cry now.

“How come you never came to me? Never even tried to contact me?” Isagani asked. “How come it’s only now you are…”

“Gani,” said Basilio. He ducked his head, as if he were ashamed. “I was afraid.”

“Of _what_?” Isagani said, his voice breaking at the last syllable.

Basilio lifted his head and finally looked Isagani in the eye. Isagani noticed his hands were shaking. “I do not know,” said Basilio. “I… I do not know. Perhaps it was myself. Perhaps it was you. Perhaps I feared you would hate me.”

“Basilio!” said Isagani. He was wounded; for him to hate this man, who had been a brother to him, who had shared laughs and stories with him and brightened his days as a student! “I would never!”

Basilio turned away again. “I could not help being afraid.”

“Then why did you help me now?” said Isagani. “What made you suddenly lose your fears?”

Basilio whipped his head to face him, a look of indignation on his face. “Because you were dying, Isagani!”

“And so you should have let me died!” Isagani countered. In a quieter voice, he added, “I came here to die.”

Basilio let out a breath of disbelief, his brow furrowed and eyes narrowed. “That’s foolishness.”

“It is _not_ —“

“An act of stupidity, man! Do you even hear what you are saying?”

“It was for my country!” Isagani cried. “How could you call that stupidity? To give one’s life for his motherland is the greatest, most noble honor!”

“Greatest! Most noble!” Basilio repeated. “It achieves nothing! What will you do, once you have gone and gotten yourself killed? Will you continue fighting against the friars? Will you continue the struggle? No! You will not accomplish anything because you are dead!”

Isagani stared after him with a slack jaw. The Basilio he had known was always calm and composed, never quarrelsome. He was the one who always tried to restrain Isagani from arguing with others. Now here he was, passionately—no, _aggressively_ defending his own opinion.

“That is not how it works,” Isagani tried to say. “Our deaths would inspire others…”

“To come to the same demise?” Basilio challenged.

Isagani narrowed his eyes in incredulity. “Would you say the same things to those who have already given up their lives in the past? Would you say these things to the martyred priests?”

“No, that is not what I mean! I respect those brave men. I strive to honor them, for their sacrifices not to be in vain. What I’m trying to say here is that I think your overly-Romantic notions of _actively_ seeking death for the sake of the country is preposterous!” said Basilio. He shook his head. “I do not want to fight with you, Isagani. But the Inang Bayan does not need your blood.” He took Isagani’s hands and brought them to his chest. “She needs your mind, and your heart. She needs your words. She needs you alive.” He paused. “And so do I.”

“Basilio…”

“I have nothing,” Basilio said. “Everyone—everyone in my life has left me. My mother is dead, and so is my brother… Juli, my beloved Juli, her kind family… even Kapitan Tiago, who gave me my education and a roof to sleep under, is gone. And you, my friend, will you abandon me as well? Will you leave me lonely and friendless?”

“No,” Isagani croaked. “No, Basilio, I’m here.”

But Basilio had crouched forward, his head bent down and his hands over his eyes. The sight of his shaking shoulders terrified Isagani. Carefully, he reached out and put his hand around Basilio’s frame, wanting and trying to soothe him. He feared Basilio did not hear what he had said.

“Basilio, I’m here,” he repeated, willing his voice to be stronger despite his pain. “I’m staying with you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Basilio lifted his head, and stared into Isagani’s eyes.

“I’m not,” Isagani assured him.

Basilio stared at him longer, and after a while he finally let out a deep sigh, his shoulders loosening. Isagani drew him closer into an embrace, holding him tightly. Basilio wrapped his arms around Isagani’s waist.

“Thank God,” Basilio whispered into his shoulder. Isagani stroked his hair, remembering how he used to do the same to the Paulita he once knew, when comforting her.

“You will get in trouble for helping me, you know,” said Isagani, after a while.

For a few seconds, Basilio did not answer. Then, quietly, “Maybe.”

“Basilio…”

“We’ll just have to leave town as soon as you can walk,” said Basilio. He sighed into the crook of Isagani’s neck. “May God protect us on our journey…”

“You don’t have to do this for me,” said Isagani.

Basilio shook his head. “I couldn’t do that.”

“You shouldn’t endanger yourself for me.”

“I cannot do that.”

“Basilio, you cannot—“

Basilio held tightly onto the front of Isagani’s battered shirt. “You are the only one I have left,” he said. “And I know I would not be the only one to mourn you.”

Isagani drew in a sharp breath. “My uncle,” he said with dreadful regret. “I had only left him a note… I did not write anything except to tell him not to wait for me any longer. His poor soul! He thinks I am dead!”

Basilio shushed him gently, putting a hand on his heart. “Not for long,” he said. “I shall bring you back, remember? Do not fret. It will be all right.”

Isagani breathed in deeply, then exhaled, trying to calm down. He continued stroking Basilio’s hair. He could not stop thinking about the hurt Basilio’s words throughout their conversation had betrayed. In him Isagani recognized something familiar: emptiness, loneliness. The way he had lived his own life for the past year.

Except Basilio had lost more than he had—Basilio had lost completely everything. Isagani, at the very least, had his uncle, and his sea. In that moment there was only one thought in Isagani’s mind: _I want to see him smiling, always._

After all, Basilio, to him, had always been an ocean.

Isagani supposed that was why he was always been drawn to him, because Basilio gave him a sense of home, of warmth. But Basilio’s ocean was not the same as the one Isagani described to the jeweller Simoun, on that day aboard the boat a lifetime ago—no, Basilio’s ocean was the morning’s ocean, when the breeze was still cool and the waves lapped gently at the shore, as if greeting an old friend. When the seabirds sang their own strange little songs, and the early sun shone light on serene rolling hills of blue.

“There’s a town that I know of,” Isagani whispered. “With lush forests and a beautiful sea… to swim through its waters is to be blessed. As if God himself is smiling down upon you.”

Basilio parted from Isagani, and looked at him with a faded smile. “I think I’ve heard of this town,” he said. “You always speak of it.”

Isagani met his smile with his own. “The town’s old physician has just passed away,” he said. “They are in need of a doctor.”

Basilio was silent.

“One who is kind, and compassionate,” Isagani continued, “who would love and treat every patient like a brother or sister.”

Isagani held out his palms to Basilio. It was a question.

Basilio took hold of his hands, squeezed them, and nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work has been in my drafts for more than two months now. It's actually finished and the fic in its entirety is around a little more than 19k words. Updates will come regularly, so look forward to next Sunday :--) Also, there's going to be some historical references here and there throughout the fic, so watch out for those!


	2. Mga Lihim ng Dagat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like before, my biggest thanks to my good friend and beta, [acogna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acogna). Thank you as well to all the people who are reading the fic so far - it's a small crowd, but the fact that there are people interested in reading my little story warms my heart nonetheless.

Padre Florentino was sitting out on the porch when the karomata that carried Basilio and Isagani arrived. Florentino ran out to them at once, tears streaming down his cheeks, and held his nephew’s face and kissed his forehead, crying out to the heavens his gratitude. Immediately he called out for the servants to come and help Isagani inside, for he needed to hold on to Basilio for support when walking.

Basilio was welcomed with open arms in the old priest’s house. Padre Florentino thanked him over and over again for saving his nephew’s life. Basilio stayed humble, saying he had a duty to look over his friends. Mostly, he was just pleased to find that Padre Florentino had an array of antidotes and medicines he was allowed to use.

“One of these days, I will take you out for a picnic by the shore,” Isagani said, while he still lay in bed.

“But not anytime soon,” Basilio chided from his bedside. He was cleaning Isagani’s eyeglasses—an old pair he had to use since his newer ones were cracked. They were out of fashion and made him look slightly older. “Your wound has not yet completely healed. Especially after we had to travel to here.” His brow furrowed. “I should have let you rest a while longer, but it was too dangerous to wait…”

“You don’t have to stay by my side all day, you know,” said Isagani. “I can take care of myself. Why not go around the town? Talk to the townspeople?”

“The townspeople will crowd me,” said Basilio. “The arrival of anything or anyone new interests them too much. I’m not a fan of attention, you know that.”

It was true. Word of Basilio’s arrival had traveled quickly, this being a small town. Several rumors have spread about his purpose and character—that he was a former reformist, that he was expelled from Santo Tomas, that he was so skilled in medicine because he was a practitioner in the dark arts, etc., etc. The more sensible concluded that he was a mere physician and friend of Isagani.

(They talked about Isagani, too. _How was he injured? Why was he injured? Where did he come from? Did you hear that there was an uprising in the nearby town? Did you know Isagani disappeared the night before that uprising? Don’t you remember he’s been already been arrested before?_ )

(Basilio told him not to mind. Basilio knew best, so Isagani listened. Besides, he was used to the townspeople talking about him, anyway.)

“It could do you some good to get some fresh air,” said Isagani.

“Then open the window,” said Basilio, with a joking scoff. Isagani smiled.

There was a knock at the door. It opened and the house-boy, Tonying, came in. “Doctor Basilio, Aling Rosa is asking for you. She says her daughter has a terrible stomachache and she’s wondering if you could be of help to them…”

This was beginning to become a common occurrence. Having heard that Basilio had been the one to administer to Isagani’s wounds, the townspeople then flocked to him whenever even the slightest illness struck. After all, with the old town doctor gone, their only other choice was to travel to the nearest neighboring town for a doctor. _No, no_ , Basilio would tell them, _I am not a doctor_ , but Basilio knew how to heal cuts and soothe headaches, so the townspeople came to him anyway.

Basilio got up from his seat, and sighed. “For the last time, you must not call me ‘doctor’…”

Isagani chuckled. “Oh, let them be, Basilio. We call you ‘doctor’ out of respect.”

Basilio still shook his head. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone. It should only take a while.”

“Well, what choice do I have other than to follow my doctor’s orders?” Isagani said with a shrewd smile. Basilio rolled his eyes at him, and followed Tonying out the door.

Later on, Padre Florentino would knock on his door, back from his mass.

“How are you feeling?” he asked Isagani.

“I’m fine for now, Tiyo,” said Isagani. He sighed. “I wish I could work, though. I do not want to be a burden.”

Padre Florentino gave him a kind smile, and sat beside him. “You are never a burden, Aning,” he said. His eyes twinkled. “Besides, you shouldn’t worry now that we have another set of hands to help around the house.”

“Do not turn Basilio into another house-boy, Tiyo!” Isagani said with a laugh.

“Ah, I try not to, but that boy does it himself,” said Padre Florentino. “He feels guilty about staying with us like this, so he keeps doing chores himself. Just yesterday, I found him washing the dishes. Last week, he was pinning up laundry. Nenang—” (part of the house staff, an old maid who had the unfortunate luck of always losing the lottery and had been fond of smuggling Isagani sweets when he was a child) “—scolded him and pinched his cheek, saying that as a guest he should not be doing these things.”

Isagani smiled. “I’m guessing that it is only second nature to him,” he said. “He used to serve a rich man, you see.”

“Yes, I remember,” said Padre Florentino, while nodding his head. “The famous Kapitan Tiago. My old friend Don Tiburcio mentioned him once or twice, too.”

He turned to the window, to watch the waves. Was he wondering what had become of that old man, Isagani wondered? After all, they never heard a word from De Espadaña after he left. Isagani hoped that he lived a quiet, Victorina-less life.

Of course, remembering Donya Victorina brought back to his mind fleeting portraits of Paulita. His face must have immediately darkened, for Padre Florentino turned concerned at once. “Isagani, what’s wrong?”

Isagani shook his head. “Nothing, Tiyo. I’m quite all right, I assure you.”

He shouldn’t think about those things anymore. There were other things to be preoccupied with now. “Other things” pertaining to Basilio, that is. He had a lot of catching-up to do with his friend. A lot of sight-seeing and taking him around the town, too—well, when he finally gets out of this godforsaken bed.

“Isagani,” said Padre Florentino, gently, his eyes still set outside the window. “I think we need to discuss a few things.”

“Tiyo?”

“Your wound, for one,” Florentino said. He turned to face Isagani. “Did you really get it by being attacked by a wild dog?”

Isagani fidgeted with the hem of his blanket. “Well… you see…”

“And your note,” Florentino said. “Ay, Diyos ko, iho. How it broke my heart… what did you mean by that? What were you planning to do?”

Isagani closed his eyes shut. His palms felt sweaty. “Tiyo, please…”

“Aning,” Padre Florentino whispered. He reached over and took hold of Isagani’s hands, no matter how damp they were. Isagani did not fail to notice how his uncle’s hands trembled. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

Isagani took in a deep breath, and exhaled. With tears prickling his eyes, he nodded. “There…” he started, “are some things that I must confess.”

 

* * *

 

“Have you written any new poems, in the past year?” Basilio asked him. It was morning, and they were having breakfast. Basilio ate his tuyo and rice on Isagani’s desk and while Isagani had his in bed, on a tray.

Isagani froze, halfway through taking another mouthful of rice. He set down his spoon and looked down at his lap. “No,” he said.

Basilio frowned. “Truly? Why not?”

Isagani shrugged and resumed eating.

“Hey, now,” said Basilio. “Do not be so cold. Why not, Gani?”

“I do not know,” said Isagani, not so kindly. “A lack of inspiration, I suppose, or whatever you wish to call it.”

Basilio hummed. “Perhaps a walk by the shore would really do you some good, then,” he said.

“I’ve been here for the entirety of the past year, remember?” said Isagani, sighing. “I’ve had that sea outside my window the whole time. And still, nothing.”

Basilio set his plate aside, and got up to sit beside Isagani on his bed. “Perhaps that would change if you had someone to go with you,” he said. “After all, it is sad to be alone. Maybe that is why.” He smiled, as if he could not help it.

Isagani looked at that smile, and imagined the both of them ankle-deep in the sea’s cool waters, that smile paired with kind eyes amidst the dancing waves and the open sky. He pictured Basilio looking at him—smiling at him, and him alone, his laughter mixed with the tide’s familiar rumbles.

It put strange feelings in Isagani’s stomach. For this reason, Isagani turned away.

“I thought I should not be moving about too much yet,” he said.

“Well, as your… not-quite-doctor, I get the final say on whether you are fit to do things or not,” Basilio said lightly. “And I say that you have my permission to go outside starting, say… tomorrow? Yes, tomorrow would be good. For now, let today be another day of rest.”

The promise of being able to go out again lifted Isagani’s mood somewhat, at least. “All right, then,” he said. “But play another game of chess with me later. I want to try and beat and you this time.”

“Oh, but you won one game yesterday, what do you mean?”

“That was not winning. You let me win!” Isagani shoved Basilio, the both of them laughing. “I can’t have you pitying me all the time. It hurts my honor!”

“All right, all right,” said Basilio. “But finish your breakfast first. You need to be healthy.”

“Now you are acting like a nursemaid.”

“Finish your breakfast, young man.”

Isagani sighed—half in exasperation, half in fondness, and returning to eating his tuyo. Basilio looked at him in triumph.

(They played chess later on, as promised. Isagani lost. Basilio offered him a banana from the kitchen as a consolation prize. Insulted, Isagani hit Basilio’s head with the banana. But not too roughly.)

 

* * *

 

The house was at the top of the low cliffs, and Isagani led Basilio down the rocky path that eventually led into the heart of the town. The weather was wonderful; not too cloudy that it was dark and not too clear that it was scorchingly hot. The perfect day for the picnic Isagani’s been itching to have.

“Are you sure you do not need my help?” Isagani asked. While he was only carrying the folded mat, Basilio balanced the basket full of their merienda on his shoulder with his hands, trying to mind his step.

“No, I’m fine,” said Basilio. “You should not be exerting too much effort just yet. It will not be good for you.”

“You look like you are having a difficult time,” Isagani said. He took in the slight way Basilio’s fingers shook at supporting the heavy basket. Even though he was younger, Isagani was taller and his arms were sturdier. It made him feel bad not to help. “The both of us should carry it. Give me one side of the handle.”

Basilio seemed to consider this for a while. After some time, he relented. “All right,” he said.

They walked the rest of the way both holding part of the basket’s handle between them. Through the town people greeted them, tipping their salakot on the street or waving from the windows of a house. Isagani got some questions of “Ah, Senyor Isagani, you are doing better now?”, though he did not fail to not how when the townspeople thought he was out of hearing they would return to whispering about him. Basilio received some pleasant greetings of “Good day, Doctor!” to which Basilio always responded politely in kind. Isagani knew that on the inside he was groaning at the insistence of “doctor.”

Basilio stopped in front of the church. Isagani turned to him. There was something in his expression that Isagani could not place. A kind of sadness, something far-off and wistful, like certain kinds of poetry.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

He followed Basilio’s gaze. He was looking at the sacristan boy sweeping the front steps of the church. The boy was deathly thin, his left cheek was bright red, and his eyes looked as if he had just been crying. There was still some snot dripping down his nose.

Basilio put down his side of the basket, urging Isagani to do the same. Isagani did, but he was still confused. “Basilio…?”

Basilio was opening up the basket, and picking out one of the bibingka they had packed earlier. He said, in a tone so inaudible that Isagani almost didn’t catch it, “The boy must be hungry.”

Isagani watched as Basilio stood and walked up to the sacristan boy. Basilio tapped him on the shoulder, held out the bibingka, and whispered a few words. The little boy burst into tears and charged forward with a hug, crying into Basilio’s shirt. Basilio looked so surprised, and patted the boy on his back with his free hand. Eventually the boy calmed down and took the bibingka, and Basilio returned to Isagani while the boy sat on the steps behind him and nibbled on his treat.

“That was very kind of you,” Isagani said in a soft voice, when they started walking again.

It was a while before Basilio replied. “We packed too much, anyway.”

Isagani is reminded of another instance, from another time. The two of them had taken a kalesa somewhere, during one of the rare times when Basilio would willingly join an outing with the rest of their friends. During the ride they had passed by a church, specifically during a particularly nasty moment in which a friar was scolding a young sacristan. Isagani and Basilio had been conversing and joking with each other at the time, but when they passed by that scene Basilio’s face fell into complete seriousness as he watched the friar slap the boy outside. Isagani had to snap his fingers in front of Basilio’s face several times to regain his attention.

The rest of the walk was quiet. While Isagani was a man to always welcome peaceful silence, he worried about Basilio.

They arrived at the shore. At the sight of it, Isagani could not help letting out a sigh, like a person relieved to finally return home. He had the blessing of having this view outside his window, yes, but to be here, at the seaside itself, was something different entirely. The way the teal color of the sea turned into the deep blue of the ocean was beautiful, the way the sun kissed the waters with its light was immaculate. He closed his eyes and listened to the waves fall against the sand. He breathed in and smelled the fresh salt aroma of the sea. His bedridden injury had driven him homesick.

No, not just that. Not just the injury. He had not felt so strongly about the sea in such a long time. Isagani hadn’t even realized that he’d longed for it, that in his heart he had longed to be moved by the ocean again. What had changed, then? What brought about this realization?

(He asked himself this question, even though he already knew the answer. It was right beside him.)

(It does make everything better, to have someone by your side. Basilio was right, he supposed. Then again, Basilio was always right.)

“You look as if your eyes are going to well up in tears any moment,” said Basilio.

A single laugh burst out from Isagani, and he sniffed, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. “I am a sensitive man. Let me be.”

They lay their mat underneath the shade of a coconut tree, one of Isagani’s favorite spots. It was calming, to say in the least, to sit idly and watch the fishing boats glide by, warm bibingka in one’s hands. Basilio tells him about his journeys from the past year, how he had met an array of interesting people: a man confined to a chair who was courteous and brilliant, yet sickly, who Basilio had sold some medicines to; an infant Basilio administered to whose mother Basilio suspected was part of some secret organization; a familiar face Basilio had recognized as a former schoolmate in the Universidad de Santo Tomas, who dropped out despite his breathtaking mind.

“Do you miss it?” Isagani said. “Traveling, I mean.”

“Well,” Basilio shifted in his position. “The reason I did it in the first place was because… there was nothing to anchor me down to anywhere, save for San Diego. I still visit my mother every year.”

“Then why did you not go back to San Diego?”

Basilio stared out into the horizon, as if he were thinking of how to answer. “I did not want to,” he said. “It’s only full of bad memories, that place. And it’s too close to…”

He trailed off, but he didn’t need to finish his sentence. Isagani already knew. It was the same reason why he couldn’t bring himself to the Malecon, or Luneta, or the little streets of Manila he once strolled with Paulita.

Basilio cleared his throat, shaking himself. “Traveling was a great experience, but this is fine, too, I suppose.”

Isagani pursed his lips. “If only you hadn’t helped me that night, then you could have gone on continuing your way of life then.”

Basilio shook his head. “I could not do that,” he said. He sighed, and closed his eyes. “After… after what had happened. After the wedding. I remember—I was talking to you, on the street, begging you to leave with me, but… but you did not. Then I just _left_ you there. I did not even think. I just left.”

“Basilio, do not—“

“I thought you had died.”

“You should not—“

“Isagani,” Basilio said. He looked at him gravely yet sincerely, earnestly; Isagani found a rare sort of rawness in his eyes. “I was not thinking straight, back then. After that night I mourned you every minute I was awake. I could not help but think it was my fault. You cannot expect me to find you again, bleeding out on the street, and just let you die _, again_.”

Isagani was silent. He did not know what to say.

“Gani, I’ve missed you,” Basilio said softly.

Isagani looked at him. “So have I.”

Basilio smiled slightly, bringing relief upon Isagani’s shoulders. “I suppose I could just stay here until your uncle throws me out.”

“My uncle would not throw you out, he adores you,” Isagani said. “He thinks you are kind and humble, and he feels indebted to you for helping me. Besides, I assume he enjoys having another set of hands around the house to help with the chores.”

Basilio laughed, and gave Isagani a playful shove. Isagani was glad to see Basilio easy again, but Basilio shook his head and grew serious once more. “I could not impede on your uncle’s generosity forever.”

“Then start your livelihood here!” Isagani said. “Open a clinic. The townspeople come to you, anyway. And you could still live with us.”

Basilio smiled. “You really want me to stick around, don’t you?”

“It’s less boring with a friend around,” said Isagani. “What, you do want to? Don’t tell me that you’ve grown tired of me already.”

Basilio chuckled. “Oh, please,” he said. “At least not until I hear another poem from you again.”

Isagani frowned. “Basilio…”

“What?” said Basilio. “Is it wrong that I miss your poems? I can still recite several of them by heart, you know.”

Isagani sighed and looked down at his half-eaten suman. “Just… not now, Basilio.”

Basilio looked at him, before turning his head towards the ocean once more. “All right.”

It was silent, save for the waves crashing on the shore and the leaves rustling in the wind. The quietness with Basilio made Isagani fidget. “You know, I heard that Mang Pepito’s grandson has been sick for a while now.”

“Yes, I heard as well,” said Basilio. “I will go visit tomorrow.”

“That’s good,” said Isagani. “Doctor or not, you are a healer, Basilio. People can always count on you.”

Basilio hummed. He finished his bibingka with one last bite. “Did you know,” he said, “that the other day, Tonying approached me and asked if I could teach him medicine?”

Isagani let out an amused huff. “Ah, that Tonying.” he said. “He’s an orphan, had been begging out on the streets before we took him in. My uncle tutors him from time to time, and he’s a clever boy. He’s been getting better at chess. What did you say to him?”

“Of course, I said yes,” said Basilio. “It’s a pity I do not have my old textbooks, though.”

“My uncle owns plenty of books,” said Isagani. “I’m sure he would allow you to use them if you asked.”

“Then I shall ask him,” said Basilio. He fidgeted with banana leaf from his finished bibingka, folding the edges. “You know,” he said, “I never thought that I would become a doctor, when I was younger. I wanted to be something else.”

Isagani leaned forward in interest. “What?” he asked. It wasn’t so often Basilio talked about his past. Even though they were close friends, Isagani knew very little about his background. “A priest?”

Basilio snorted. “God, no,” he said. “No, no. I wanted to work on a farm. With cows.”

“On a farm? With cows?” Isagani repeated incredulously. “I could never imagine!”

Basilio shrugged, and laughed lightly. “Times were tough, back then. We were poor. My father… well, he was not really in the picture. Even though I was a child, I had to be responsible. Education was not on my mind, when I needed a job to earn money for my family. I had dreamed of sending my… my younger brother to school, although…” Basilio’s expression darkened. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me. I do not speak about this often.”

This was news. He did vaguely remember Basilio mentioning a sibling, when they were at the inn, but he had never said anything about it before. “You have a younger brother?”

Basilio closed his eyes, and breathed in deeply. “Had.”

Isagani blinked. “Ah,” he said. “Forgive me, I…”

“It’s all right,” said Basilio. He sighed.

It was quiet again.

“Basilio,” said Isagani, in a soft voice. “Why do sacristans make you so sad?”

Basilio took a while to reply. Isagani listened to the waves crash against the shore several times until Basilio said, “I was one, once.”

Isagani did not push the topic further.

Every once in awhile, Isagani would swear that he had seen something glinting in the sea, something that he knew was not just the sun’s reflection but something _else_ entirely. Something shiny, glittering, and special. He could never put his finger on what it exactly that thing was. Isagani had known this sea all his life, but there was always still some mystery unknown. There were always secrets.

Isagani turned to Basilio again, but Basilio did not look at him. He kept his gaze straight forward, to the sea. His eyes were the same as earlier, at the church. It brought a pang to Isagani’s heart. He wished Basilio would look at him. He wished he would smile again.

The two young men spent the rest of the afternoon sitting on the beach and listening to the waves.

 

* * *

 

“He is buried here, you know,” said Isagani one day.

Basilio, who had been contemplating his next move on the chessboard, lifted his head to him, his eyes questioning.

“Simoun,” said Isagani, in a voice not quite loud and not quite soft. Careful, more like. Cautious.

Basilio straightened in his seat. “What?”

“He died here, apparently,” Isagani continued. “Here, in this house. I wasn’t home yet, at the time. He confessed to my uncle before he passed away. They buried him right at the outskirts of the town.”

The words seemed to be a blow for Basilio. He blinked down at the chess pieces with blank, glassy eyes. “I did not know,” he said. “He… just disappeared.”

“A strange man, he was. Furiously aggravating, as well. He terrified me,” said Isagani. “They say that he was actually a filibustero.”

Basilio’s lips tightened, his brows scrunched up together in deep thought. “Isagani,” he started, “I do not know if you know this, but I must tell you anyway. Back then, during the celebration at Kapitan Tiago’s old house—the lamp, the, the one you threw into the river—“

“Oh, I know,” Isagani said. “Not until after it happened, but, yes, I know.”

Basilio's eyes were wide and disbelieving.

“Gossip travels around,” Isagani explained.

Basilio swallowed, nodded in understanding, and returned his attention to the board.

When he still did not make his move, Isagani asked, “Do you want to visit him?”

Basilio sighed. “Why not,” he said. He lifted a hand and moved his rook. “Checkmate.”

Isagani wilted. “Punyeta, not again…”

At least it brought a chuckle out from Basilio’s lips.

 

* * *

 

The clouds hung low and gray in the sky. The colorful parols signalling the nearness of Christmas, usually enough to bring festivity into the air, did nothing to brighten the mood. A few villagers asked where they were headed to, and gave them disapproving looks when Isagani replied that they were going to visit the old jeweller’s grave. Isagani took Basilio through the path that ran by the forest, where they could listen to the birds’ chirping along their walk. They brought with them a single candle.

“Ah,” said Isagani, when a wooden cross began to come into view. “We’re here.”

Simoun’s grave was simple. The town was a long way behind it, and it was in the middle of nature. There was a cross on a stone, on which his name and day of death was engraved, surrounded by a small, rickety fence made of wood and wire. Nothing more.

“The people don’t go near this place because they think it’s haunted,” Isagani said as he moved closer and kneeled down before the grave.

Basilio kneeled down beside him. “I think it’s very sad,” he said. “There’s no one else buried here in this place.”

The both of them were speaking in soft whispers.

They lighted the candle and said their own silent prayers. Basilio’s prayer was longer than Isagani’s, and he watched as Basilio kept his head bowed down while Isagani himself sat straight.

Basilio finally lifted his head. “He had a difficult life,” he said.

“Truly?”

“Yes.”

The wind blew by, ruffling their hair and the trees’ leaves.

“Basilio, how did you know about the lamp?” Isagani asked.

“The lamp,” Basilio repeated absentmindedly.

“You warned me about it,” said Isagani. “You knew about it beforehand.”

He allowed some time for Basilio to answer. Basilio was thinking about his reply quite deeply. Isagani knew this because Basilio’s head was tilted slightly to the side, with his arms crossed and his right hand drumming his fingers onto the crook of his elbow, what he always did when he was concentrating. When you study a lot with a friend, you tend to notice these things.

“I knew,” said Basilio, slowly, “because he told me.”

Isagani blinked at Basilio with incredulity. “Were you his accomplice?”

“What was I supposed to do, then?” said Basilio. He did not look at Isagani. “I had lost everything. _Everything_ , Isagani—that is not an exaggeration. I was angry, I was furious, I was full of hatred, I was—“

Basilio stopped. Isagani had taken hold of his hand.

“You are not that anymore,” Isagani said. He ran his thumb along Basilio’s knuckles, trying to calm him down.

“I am ashamed of the man I was that night,” Basilio said. “I want change, like the rest of us. God, I want change. I dream of it, I yearn for it, I want to see my countrymen live freely and happily! But not like that. Never. Not with innocent people getting hurt…”

Isagani’s thoughts went back to that day in the Orenda house, the day he decided to leave Manila. He remembered his comments on the thief. He remembered regretting throwing the bomb into the river.

“My uncle spoke to me, a while after we had returned,” Isagani said. “He told me that during Simoun’s last hours, he told my uncle everything, and my uncle told Simoun that his revolution did not work because his methods were not just. His intentions were not worthy. A revolution fueled by hatred and revenge, making use of the bullets of blood and crime…” Isagani stopped. He took off his spectacles and cleaned them despite his shaking fingers. “I had given it much thought since then. Machiavelli was wrong, I suppose. In God’s eyes, at least.”

“Do you regret joining the uprising, then?” Basilio asked.

“I do not know. I’m still confused,” Isagani said. “There’s so much to think about… they’re all clouds swirling in my head. But one thing’s for sure: while I am unclear about my actions, my heart will never regret what it meant to fight for that night. My love for this country is something I will never take back.”

Basilio smiled at him. “That, I respect,” he said. “That, I understand.”


	3. Panahon ng Pagbubulaklak

Just as he used to when he was a child, Isagani leaned back on the chaise with closed eyes, listening to his uncle play his harmonium. Basilio was out, visiting Mang Pepito’s sick grandson again for another check-up. Today’s music was elegant and relaxing, and perhaps even a little hopeful.

Florentino played the last note of his song, and Isagani clapped his hands. “You play beautifully as usual, Tiyo.”

“Thank you, iho,” said Padre Florentino, smiling. “Wouldn’t you like to play something? It’s been a while.”

Isagani blushed. “Ah, no, thank you, Tiyo,” he said. “I’ve never played quite as well as you do, anyway.”

His upbringing with Padre Florentino included lessons on the instrument. The naive, wide-eyed six year-old Isagani was ecstatic at the proposal—finally, he could learn how to make music like his uncle does! That was before he discovered that it wouldn’t be as easy as he thought it would be. Or that some people just are not born with the gift of music.

“Do not say that, Isagani,” said Padre Florentino. “You will not get any better if you don’t practice. Back when I was younger, that was what my elders always told me.”

“With all due respect, Tiyo,” said Isagani, smiling, “perhaps it would be better for everyone in this household if they did not have to spend their days listening to the noise we call my ‘music practice’. There is a reason why I’ve stuck to pen and ink all these years,” he added with a laugh.

His uncle gave him a wistful smile. “But you have not written anything in so long,” he said.

Isagani adjusted his glasses. “Ah, well…” he trailed off.

“That’s too bad,” said Florentino. He sighed. “I had thought that you would start composing again, because you have been so much happier lately…”

Isagani tilted his head. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t think that I did not notice, Aning,” said Florentino, grinning. “Ever since you came back, you have had this… _lighter_ air around you. It is more at ease, more approachable. You have been smiling much more as well, and it is always good to see you smile… and your appetite!” Padre Florentino laughed. “When a man is truly depressed, he barely eats. But now, you and Basilio steal all our pastries from the kitchen and go frolicking on picnics!” He pinched Isagani’s cheek, to which Isagani smiled and rolled his eyes fondly. “Not that I’m scolding you… just remember to save some for me and the rest next time.”

There was the sound of the front door opening.

“Doctor Basilio, you’re back!” said the loud voice of Nenang from the other room. “Oh, did you know that I was so close to winning the lottery this time, I was only two numbers off…”

“And here comes the source of your newfound happiness now,” Padre Florentino said.

Isagani looked to his uncle. “Tiyo, what do you—”

The door opened. Basilio came inside, and in his hands was a small woven basket full of leafy vegetables. “Little Andong is finally free from sickness,” he said with a triumphant grin. “I told them not to bother paying me, but his grandfather insisted on giving me these vegetables. I did not want to be rude. Anyway, I promised Nenang I’d help her set up the streamers and parols for Christmas, so I will be quick. What have the two of you been up to?”

It was not as if Isagani was surprised. He knew it at the beach. He knew it when they played chess. If anything’s different now, it’s because of Basilio.

 

* * *

 

Later that day, while the sun sank down behind the sea, Isagani sat at his desk, alone in his room.

He was orphaned too young to remember his mother, and therefore the only mother he had ever known was his motherland. These islands had given him everything, and to her he owed everything: his sea, his forests, his people, his language, his life. In this country, the sky is blue; in this country, the air is fresh and relaxing. How can one not love the Philippines? How can one not find beauty in her shores, mystery in her woods, warmth and friendship in her people? Nowhere else does the sun ever shine any brighter than here, because the sun loves the Philippines with all its heart. When one is home, the streets are cleaner, the nights are clearer, and the songs are sweeter.

Isagani’s papers had been blank for too long. It was God’s order to honor one’s parents; that was what Isagani will do.

And so he picked up his pen, and wrote.

 

* * *

 

Basilio was the first person he showed it to.

Isagani bit his lip as he watched Basilio read his poem. It was quite long, but not awfully lengthy, and yet Basilio was taking his time reading it, devouring every word. Basilio was the calm, modest type of person, so his expression took on a neutral smile all throughout, which did not tell Isagani _anything_. Did he like it? Did he hate it? Perhaps during his year-long hiatus Isagani’s skills have rusted so horribly that the poem was ridiculous garbage and Basilio thought so, too.

Finally, Basilio put down the poem. Isagani swallowed. “The verdict?”

Basilio ducked his head, and dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief. “Isagani,” he said, with a smile so bright and adoring, “it’s beautiful.”

“Oh,” is all Isagani could say. “You are crying.”

Basilio laughed. He wiped at his eyes again. “Sorry,” he said. “I tried not to, but it was just so—oh, goodness.” He stopped, and laughed again. “Sorry, sorry.”

“No, it’s all right,” said Isagani. “Go on, I want to hear it.” He was smiling now as well with his eyebrows raised, pleasantly surprised. Basilio was usually so reserved with his emotions.

“Well,” Basilio started. “You have written poems about the country in past, but this one feels different. A good kind of different, though! It is not overly-idealistic like before, as if just by reading this poem I can tell you have matured. I know you’ve been through a lot and I know you have grown through it. But at the same time, it’s not—it’s not just _that_. It’s not just dark or pragmatic; you have kept some of that optimism. It’s still hopeful, in the end.” Basilio’s eyes shone. “That’s what I loved most.”

A huge burden was lifted off Isagani’s shoulders, like he could at last breathe again. He let out a relieved sigh. “Thank God,” he said. “You have no idea how glad I am that you liked it.”

Basilio beamed. “Of course I would like it,” he said. “I am, after all, your number one fan.”

With Basilio smiling at him like that, there came the strange feelings in his stomach again. Right away Isagani shifted his gaze, and subtly put his fingers to his wrist. His heart was racing. This was starting to happen more frequently now, even after Isagani’s injury healed and they spent less time together with Basilio having to visit patients more.

And over time he had come to recognize the feeling.

(At first he did not want to come into terms with it, because it reminded him of Paulita. Everything romantic will always be associated with Paulita, and everything associated with Paulita will always be painful. But he could not ignore the heart’s call for long, because the heart is an imbecile and will go after things it wants, even if those things may hurt it, and the heart will push and push until its desires are acknowledged. Each heartbeat was a knock, quickening by the second, and it was becoming increasingly more difficult to disregard the door.)

“Isagani? Are you all right?” Basilio asked. He was waving his hand in front of Isagani’s face. “What is it? Headache? Stomachache? I have some herbal remedies…”

Isagani forced himself to smile. “No, it’s nothing. I was only thinking of some things,” he said.

“Oh, all right, then,” said Basilio. There was still a crease in his brow, like he was still worried. “What were you thinking about?”

Isagani retrieved the paper on which he wrote his poem, folded it, and put it into his pocket. “Decisions,” he said.

 

* * *

 

It was the early morning of December twenty-fourth, and the sky was still dark and the sun had not yet risen. Basilio and Isagani set out for San Diego.

Like any proper son, Basilio visited his mother every year on the very day she died. This year was no different, and a few days ago Basilio reminded Isagani of his plans. Isagani had insisted on going with him, so that he wouldn’t be alone. The town of San Diego was not very far, and they both promised Padre Florentino that they would be back in time for the misa de gallo.

“Looking at the rice paddies is my favorite,” Isagani muttered while he looked out of their karomata. On his lap were sampaguita flowers he was arranging into a necklace. “See how they reflect the sky. They’re so blue.”

Basilio hummed. “It’s pretty,” he said. “Look, there’s a carabao.”

“Carabaos remind me of you,” Isagani teased. “The both of you are docile and hardworking.”

“Well, I happen to think that the carabao is an honorable animal, so I am very flattered by that statement, thank you very much,” said Basilio.

“The carabaos will be honored that you have such a high opinion of them,” said Isagani.

“There’s a donkey,” said Basilio, pointing. “Donkeys remind me of Tadeo.”

Isagani leaned his head to the side, and watched the passing view of a donkey lazily chewing on the grass, not a care in the world. “I miss them,” he said. “Do you?”

Basilio sighed. “Dearly,” he said. “As ridiculous many of their antics were, I do miss them.”

“Hell,” said Isagani, “I’d be glad to see even Pelaez’s foolish face, one of these days. Not without punching him first, though, but I think I would embrace him after.”

“Do you mean that?” Basilio asked. “I would have thought that you would… I don’t know, hate him for all eternity, considering that…”

Isagani waved a hand. “I’m trying to bury it all in the past,” he said. “I think it would be good for me.”

Basilio smiled. “That’s good, Isagani.”

They arrived at San Diego. Isagani paid the kutsero. The moment they stepped out of the karomata the mood of both shifted immediately to something more somber, more solemn, as if suddenly recalling that yes, they are here to visit the mother of Basilio’s grave. By this time it was already nearing noon, and Basilio and Isagani had not eaten anything except for the pieces of bread they brought with them on their journey.

“Are you hungry?” Isagani asked Basilio.

Basilio shook his head. “Are you?”

“No,” said Isagani. In truth, he was simply not in the right mood to eat. He supposed the same went for Basilio.

Basilio led Isagani through the town. The paper Christmas lanterns and stars of San Diego’s little houses seemed sad and lonely; the colors were dim, and the decorations were sparse. It was a sad and unfamiliar sight to Isagani, in whose town, which was smaller than San Diego, every December was met with the merry parols and streamers in each house. With it being Christmas Eve, there was a hive of people about running errands and preparing for dinners. They went through backstreets and alleyways and tried as much as possible to avoid too many people, with Basilio looking over his shoulder frequently, making sure that nobody was watching them.

While the two walked through the streets, not one person greeted Basilio. Not one person even seemed to recognize him. This was why Basilio did not return to San Diego, the town of his birth. Here, the man had no one.

To Isagani’s surprise, Basilio did not bring him to the cemetery. He did not question anything when Basilio passed by the cemetery gate without even a second glance, the crosses and gravestones disappearing into the distance. He did not say anything when after many turns and alleys, Basilio approached a dirt road leading to a vast, dark forest, and only silently followed his friend into the thickets.

“The atmosphere of this place is very different from my forest back home,” Isagani said. His head looked around at the nature around him, the dead-looking bark of the trees and the menacing hanging branches. Even though it was midday, the woods were so thick that the only light came through small, sparse streams in between the dense foliage. He held on to Basilio’s elbow, afraid to lose him. In the darkness, the sampaguita necklace in his other hand seemed to glow.

“The townspeople think it’s cursed,” said Basilio. They were speaking in hushed tones again, like they did at the grave of Simoun. “Are you frightened?”

Isagani shook his head. “But if I were alone, I would be.”

“Don’t worry. There’s nothing dangerous in this forest, all just baseless superstition,” said Basilio. “Careful; these branches are sharp.” With his arm he held up bunches of spindly branches like sharp-nailed fingers, allowing Isagani to duck under and pass through. Isagani muttered a thank you.

Isagani straightened to find himself face-to-face with a wall. The wood was grimy and rotting, and when Isagani looked up, he could see the boughs of trees peeking out of the edge of the wall. When Isagani looked through the spaces of the wall’s gate, he saw that it was not several trees but only one, wide and tall. A balete tree.

He remembered old stories of monsters and kapre from his childhood, and a shiver passed through him. No wonder the people of San Diego saw this place as cursed.

Basilio opened the gate and entered. Isagani followed closely behind. Before the great balete was a gravestone.

Isagani gestured towards it. “Is that…”

“No,” said Basilio. He passed that grave without a second glance, and kneeled before a heap of large, rough stones.

Isagani kneeled beside him.

Basilio cleared his throat. “Well,” he started, his voice wavering slightly. “Isagani, this is my mother. Mother, this is Isagani. He’s a very good friend of mine.”

Isagani looked at the pile of rocks and tried to imagine what Basilio’s mother would be like, a woman with his friend’s kind smile. “Hello,” he said in a small voice.

Of course, there was no reply.

Basilio bowed down his head, and his lips moved silently in prayer. Isagani carefully placed the sampaguita necklace he had arranged on top of the stones, before clasping his hands together and saying his own prayer.

“You are probably wondering why my mother is buried here,” said Basilio, after a while.

“I must admit that I am curious,” said Isagani.

Basilio let out a tired sigh, and shifted to sit cross-legged on the ground. “I’d tell you, but only if you really want to know,” he said. “It’s… a long story. And it’s not a very happy one.”

Isagani knew barely anything about Basilio’s past. He knew, of course, that Basilio had come from San Diego, but he only knew the Basilio _after_ San Diego. That day, under the shade of the coconut tree on the beach, was one of the only few times Basilio had opened up to him.

He wanted to know more. He wanted to understand.

(He wanted to know everything—every single piece of information was crucial, essential, a precious pearl meant to be kept, treasured, and remembered. Isagani wanted to be able to comfort Basilio. He wanted to know how to make him happy.)

Isagani put his hand over Basilio’s, and nodded.

Basilio closed his eyes, and took in a deep breath.

His story began with two small boys.

It was difficult to keep down his horror while his friend told his tale. Misfortune after misfortune piled on top of another, and another, and another. A useless father was awful enough, but the whip of a priest on a seven year-old boy, and the mind of a beloved mother gone into ruin? Isagani could taste bile in his throat. He could feel the waves of horrified ire crashing in his stomach. It was like a switch; his hatred for these friars, this government, struck him all at once with all its intensity. It manifested itself in a mindless chant in his head: _I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them…_

“Are you all right?”

Basilio had stopped talking about his childhood, and was instead looking into Isagani’s eyes with concern.

Isagani shook himself. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “Go on. What happened then?”

“Well… when I turned around, the stranger who had told me to burn his body and my mother’s was dead. I was alone, and I didn’t know what to do… and another man came.” Basilio’s lips tightened. “Juan Crisostomo Ibarra.”

There was a howling sound. Isagani shivered, and calmed down once he realized it was only the wind.

“I thought he died,” said Isagani. “That’s what everyone says.”

Basilio shook his head. “No,” he said. “He didn’t die in the lake.”

Isagani’s brow furrowed. “Then…”

“Another time, Gani,” said Basilio. “It’s another long story.”

Isagani let out a shaky breath. “All right.”

“Senyor Ibarra helped me build a funeral pyre for the stranger, and bury my mother. After that, I left San Diego, for there was nothing for me here anymore, and set out for Manila, where I found Kapitan Tiago, and… well. You know what happened from there.”

Isagani was silent. Everything was so much to take in.

“Basilio,” he said, with downtrodden eyes, “I’m so sorry. You deserved none of that. It… It’s so…” He sighed, frustrated, and buried his head in his hands. “Forgive me. This is pathetic. For once I don’t know what words I should say…”

“You don’t have to say anything,” said Basilio. “The fact that you listened is enough. It means a lot to me. Thank you, Isagani.” And Basilio smiled, that kind, honest smile that put strange feelings in Isagani’s chest.

Isagani clasped Basilio’s shoulder. He pushed away the butterflies inside him, and recalled that deep, dark anger from before. “I promise you,” Isagani said to him, in a dour and serious voice, “that I won’t let any harm come to you. From now on, you won’t suffer as you had before, as a child or as an adult. I won’t allow it. And if anyone dares to do so, they will have to face me.”

There was a small frown on Basilio’s face. Isagani’s eyes widened as Basilio lifted one hand brought it to Isagani’s face, smoothing down his brow.

“My mother often told me that if you always frown, your face would be stuck like that,” he said.

Isagani tried to calm down his features, for Basilio’s sake. “But…”

“You know me, Isagani. I hate to fight with others. I do not want to hit back,” Basilio said. “It’s more important for me to persevere, to continuing standing tall despite everything they have done to me. I want to show them that I can survive. I want them to know that they can’t hurt me.”

Isagani’s face crumpled in thought. Then, he sighed. “You’re a better man than I am, Basilio,” he said. “I never met your mother, but I am positive that she would be proud of the person you’ve become today.”

Basilio turned back to his mother’s grave, the sampaguita necklace on the simple pile of rocks. A faint smile was still on his face. “That’s enough to make me happy.”

He hoped with all his heart that the heaven friars preached about was a place of truth; he prayed that God was kind and forgiving. Basilio’s mother deserved it—so many people did. He thought of the man he had met all those nights ago, elusive as a zephyr but as noble as the mountains. The man whose name Isagani had not even been able to catch.

A few minutes passed. Isagani nudged Basilio with his elbow.

“We should return soon if we want to be back in time for my uncle’s mass,” he said.

Basilio nodded, and stood. As they left, he looked over his shoulder to spare one last glance at his mother’s grave.

Isagani did, too. The small enclosure looked much brighter with the sampaguita flowers.

 

* * *

 

The sky was orange when they at last arrived at the town, at the foot of the rocky hill on which Padre Florentino’s house rested.

“Ah,” said Isagani, just as the clip-clopping of the karomata’s horse faded away. “That’s right… I just remembered. I’ve forgotten it until now.”

Basilio lazily tipped his head in curiosity. “Hm?”

“I never thanked you,” Isagani said quietly.

Basilio frowned. “Thanked me for what?”

“Saving my life.”

For a few seconds, Basilio did not answer and simply stared at Isagani. Then, he turned towards the house and shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “You do not not need to thank me for that.”

Isagani huffed. “Well, I will anyway,” he said as the two trekked up to the house.

Basilio gave him a peculiar smile. “And what brought this on?”

They reached the front door. From atop the cliff they could see the sun kissing the horizon as the night grew. Soon, the stars would awaken. “Let’s just say,” said Isagani, “that I’ve had a renewed opinion on life in general. A much more… optimistic approach, if you will. Much more alive.”

Basilio beamed, and Isagani wondered if the stars decided to come out earlier than expected tonight. “Well,” said Basilio, “I think you are are doing a great job so far.” He pushed open the front door and the warm, festive glow from inside the house flooded their view.

Everyone dropped what they had been busy with to greet Basilio and Isagani. Nenang left the kitchen to pinch their cheeks and offer them the puto she had saved for them for merienda. Tonying abandoned his bunot to fetch Padre Florentino, who came out of the prayer room holding onto the house-boy’s elbow.

“Isagani, Basilio,” he said after extending his hand to bless the two young men, “how was your trip?”

“It was a much-needed reminder,” said Basilio. Isagani couldn’t help noticing the little bit of puto that was left at the corner of his mouth. “Usually, visiting my mother is quite the depressing experience for me, but this time… I feel lighter, somehow. Thank you again for letting me and Isagani go.”

“Of course, iho,” said Padre Florentino, giving him a kind smile. Tonying tiptoed and whispered something into Padre Florentino’s ear. Florentino nodded. “I’m needed at the church, so I’ll leave the rest of you for now.” He wagged a finger in front of their faces. “Remember, don’t eat too much tonight! Too much of anything is always bad.”

“Yes, Padre,” said Basilio, laughing. “I will ensure that nobody gets sick of lechon tonight.”

The household bid Padre Florentino farewell, and he left. Nenang returned to the kitchen, and Tonying went to scrub the prayer room’s floor.

“Basilio,” said Isagani. “You have some puto on your face.”

Basilio blinked. “Huh?” he said, putting a hand to his mouth, albeit on the opposite side of where the bit of puto lay.

“No, not quite,” said Isagani, and before thinking he raised his own hand and brushed away the piece of puto. “There.”

“Ah,” said Basilio, another warm smile growing on his face. “Silly me. Thank you.”

Isagani met his smile with his own.

 

* * *

 

Later, after the noche buena and midnight mass, when the night has quietened down and most of the town has gone to sleep with their bellies full of hamon and minds full of sweet thoughts, Basilio presents Isagani with a small, rectangular box.

“It’s past midnight already, so it technically is Christmas day,” said Basilio, shrugging.

Isagani’s family (which was not only Padre Florentino but also included the house staff) traditionally gave each other their presents on Christmas morning, after a good night’s sleep. Every year, the gifts were simple, and every year, everyone was content. Isagani tried telling this to Basilio, who was slowly becoming part of their family, now. But Basilio shook his head and insisted.

“It’s something I wanted to give you personally,” he said. “I like everyone else very much, but you know that I fare better in more private situations.”

Isagani ran his fingers along the smooth wrapping. What was inside? A pen? A bookmark? “All right,” he said.

He set the box on his desk and carefully pulled loose the twine securing the present. After he had unwrapped it, he opened the lid of the slender box.

A new pair of spectacles.

Isagani lifted them up to view them properly. The lenses were clean and clear, the frame was durable brass, and they were in style. Eyeglasses like these did not come cheap.

“Padre Florentino helped me find the right prescription lenses,” said Basilio.

“I…” Isagani started. He swallowed, and tried to make his voice sound less watery. “Thank you, Basilio. I mean that from the bottom of my heart.”

Basilio let out a breath. “So, you like it?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Isagani. “I’ve been dying to stop wearing my uncle’s old glasses. They’re hideous and I think they’re the reason why the children in the town don’t talk to me as much anymore.”

Basilio let out a laugh. “Oh, I’m so glad that you like it,” he said. “I was worried that you wouldn’t. I wouldn’t know what I would do if you didn’t… they don’t accept refunds.”

“You know you didn’t have to spend so much for me,” said Isagani, the guilt dripping in like water from a leaky pipe. “Where did you buy these, anyway?”

“A merchant came through a few weeks ago, didn’t you know? He was staying at the house of one of my patients,” said Basilio. “Also, you shouldn’t worry about the price. I have savings, and sometimes some people insist on paying me more than what is needed… I don’t want for much, so most excess money goes unspent. It’s nice to use it to make someone I care about happy.”

“Well, you succeeded,” said Isagani. He put on the eyeglasses Basilio had given him.

“Are they all right?” Basilio asked.

Isagani blinked a few times, getting used to the new pair, and soon found that they were just right for his eyes. “Just perfect,” he said.

“I’m glad,” said Basilio. And that was his very first sight with this pair of spectacles: his beloved friend looking at him with calmness. He wouldn’t prefer it any other way.

“I only hope that my own present would be as good as yours,” said Isagani.

“Anything from my friend would be something I would greatly cherish,” said Basilio, “but come now. It’s getting too late, and we still have things to do in the morning. The both of us should rest. Don’t you remember your traditions of giving gifts on Christmas day?”

“You broke the rule,” Isagani grumbled. “And it is Christmas day, as you have said.”

“Nenang will be fussy when she finds out I gave my my gift ahead of time, and she’ll be even more fussy if she finds out that the both of us did,” said Basilio. He stood and made his way to the door.

“All right, all right,” said Isagani. “Good night, Basilio.”

Basilio opened the door, and paused. The candlelight from the hallway illuminated the side of his face. “Good night, Isagani.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be busy next Sunday, so next chapter will either be early or late. Also, it's going to be the final chapter. I've been working on this for some time now so it's hard for me to believe that I'm going to be done with this fic for good soon :(


	4. Pagbati

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for Extremely Extra & Dramatic Antics, courtesy of Isagani

When he was a child, Isagani would speak to the sea.

He would run down to the beach after breakfast, leaving small footprints in the sand, and greet the rolling waves a cheerful _good morning!_ He would sit down at the foot of the shore, the water lapping around his toes. He would tell the sea of his adventures the previous day: how he found a strange beetle in the forest, and how Nenang taught him how to make leche flan, and how his tiyo’s bedtime story was so mysterious yet exciting at the same time.

And the sea did not answer back, but the sea always listened. Isagani liked that; he liked being heard. He liked being paid attention to.

The fishermen boarding their bangkas would give him strange looks before pushing their boats into the sea, just as the women on their way to the river to do the laundry would whisper amongst each other. Even with technology and telegram lines, whispers seemed to always be the fastest form of communication, and these whispers eventually reached Padre Florentino.

“Ay, Padre,” Isagani once heard a woman say, a mother with graying hair who approached the priest after mass. As if Isagani himself was not sitting on a pew a few feet away. “That boy of yours… He’s very, well, _odd_ , no? Instead of playing with the other boys he goes to the beach and talks to himself! Perhaps you should do something…”

A little boy hearing those kinds of things from an adult would make him very anxious, which is what happened to the young Isagani. The next morning, he did not run down the hill to the beach. He stayed in his bed, with one of his uncle’s old, leather-bound books in his lap, trying to decipher the ancient words that sounded like the ones he heard during mass. Padre Florentino found him in this manner.

“Don’t you want to play at the seashore today, Aning?” asked Florentino.

Isagani’s little face scrunched up, like he’d seen adults do when they’re unhappy. “I don’t play at the seashore,” he said. “I’m not a baby, Tiyo.”

Padre Florentino chuckled, and sat beside his nephew. “Well, don’t you want to visit it, at least? You always do so at this time of the day.”

Isagani turned the page with careful fingers. Another wall of the strange language that was almost like Spanish, but not quite. “I’m just not in the mood,” said Isagani.

His uncle shifted closer to him. “Isagani,” he said, “you shouldn’t let what other people say get to you.”

Padre Florentino was often like this, trying to reach out to him. Isagani bit his lip. “But…”

Florentino smiled kindly. “You enjoy it, don’t you? You love the ocean.”

He was right. Isagani loved how refreshing the wind was at the shore, how the sea provided shades of blue he’d never be able to see anywhere else. Burying his toes into the warm sand and trying to imagine what the sea fowl were cawing to each other about.

“Well?” His uncle had his palm held out to Isagani. “Why don’t the two of us go outside?”

Isagani took his hand, ageing and beginning to wrinkle, a strong contrast against his own smaller, softer one. “All right, Tiyo,” he said. “But I still do not want to go to the beach. A-At least not now…”

Padre Florentino smiled again. “That’s all right,” he said. “We can still see the ocean from outside our house, after all.”

From atop the cliff where their home lay Isagani could not dip his bare ankles into the water, but he could peer over the edge and gaze at the sea from above. The new perspective could be just as interesting as sitting on the beach. Isagani watched the white foam of the waves spray against the dark rocks (and enjoyed how the water would splash against his face when a particularly large wave hit).

“Be careful,” said Padre Florentino. “You might fall over.”

“I know how to swim,” said Isagani. “Tiyo, what’s under the ocean?”

“All sorts of different fish, some small and others large… Corals of a spectrum of colors, like a rainbow under the water,” said Padre Florentino.

“And crabs, right, Tiyo?”

Padre Florentino laughed. “Yes, Aning, and crabs.”

Isagani sat down, not minding that it would dirty his trousers. He closed his eyes and listened to the waves. “I wish me and the sea could be friends forever.”

His uncle laid his hand on his head, ruffling his hair. “Of course you will,” he said. “The sea will always be here for you when you go home.”

When he got older, Isagani often liked to look back to this memory; it made him feel safe. Later on, he would also find a new place to be with the sea, a small, closed-off clearing facing the ocean, accessible only by going through the forest. And even though that place was isolated, he never felt lonely. After all, he had a friend with him.

 

* * *

 

Isagani heard laughter as he walked into the sitting room to find Basilio and Tonying on the floor. Lying between them was a long, wooden sungka board.

“Argh! No, no, not again!” said Tonying. Basilio’s last shell had landed on an empty hollow on his side, just opposite from Tonying’s most replete hollow. “Kuya Basilio, you’re the worst!”

“Sorry,” said Basilio with a smile that betrayed his lack of any sort of shame.

Isagani approached them, and sat down in front of the sungka board. “Taking a break from learning about medicine?”

“Tonying found this board while cleaning, and he did a lot of work done yesterday, so today is a break day,” said Basilio. “But every time he loses to me, I’m giving him another assignment to do. Speaking of, add another one to the list.” Looking at their board, one could see that their game was clearly over, and that there was no need to count the shells because Basilio clearly won.

“I want a rematch!” Tonying whined.

“I have already given you three rematches,” said Basilio.

Isagani huffed a laugh, and leaned back on one hand. “Tonying, it’s best to accept your fate and move on. For some reason, God has bestowed Basilio with the gift of being incredibly good at every kind of board game.”

Tonying sighed and slumped over, holding his face in his hands. “Oh, well,” he said. “Might as well get back to my chores.”

Isagani helped Basilio and Tonying gather the shells into their container. After, Tonying trotted off to do his chores in the garden.

“What do you say?” said Basilio, holding up the sungka board. “Want to play?”

“Why not,” said Isagani. “But only because it’s been so long since I last played this game. I’m not that sadistic enough to want to watch myself get beaten by you again.” He stood and held his hand out to Basilio. “Shall we go to my room?”

Basilio laughed and took his hand.

 

 

“I can’t believe it,” said Isagani.

“Well, you better,” Basilio said, crossing his arms.

“I won,” said Isagani. He blinked. “I actually _won_. Against _you_.”

They had just finished counting their shells. Isagani had beaten Basilio by just the small margin of three. He was enjoying the tiny pout on Basilio’s face.

“I could write a poem about this,” said Isagani. “The sweet taste of victory, handed down to me by Nike herself—“

“Ha!” Basilio scoffed.

“Don’t be such a sore loser, my friend,” said Isagani. “There’s always next time.” If he were any more insufferable, he would’ve winked.

“All right, all right. I get it,” said Basilio.

“If it really bothers you, we can play again,” said Isagani. “I know you will win next time, anyway.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Basilio waved a hand and smiled. “Forgive me. I was not really upset, I promise you.”

“If you say so,” said Isagani. He looked to the open window, facing the sea. “It’s a nice day outside today. Do you want to go down to the shore?”

Basilio’s smile did not waver. He stretched, and lied down on the floor. “We’re always going down to the shore.”

“Well, I love the ocean,” said Isagani. “And I’m bored.”

“Don’t you have any duties or responsibilities to do?” said Basilio.

Isagani lied down beside him. “I had a job, but I haven’t gone back there ever since… well, you know.”

Basilio hummed.

“This is nice, too,” said Isagani. Just lying down with Basilio by his side. Or being near Basilio at all, really.

“You always leave your window open,” said Basilio. “One day you might get a cold. But it also makes your room always smell like the ocean, so it’s almost all right. But only almost.”

Isagani laughed. “If I contracted a cold, I know I’ll have you to take care of me, anyways.”

Basilio elbowed him. “I’m not your nurse.”

“Yes, because you’re my doctor.”

“I’m not a doctor, either.”

“Mm. It does not matter,” said Isagani. He was getting drowsy. Beside him, Basilio closed his eyes. Maybe he was getting sleepy, too. “Basilio, how long are you going to stay here?”

“Until Nenang calls us for merienda.”

“No,” said Isagani. “How long are you going to stay _here_. In this town.”

Basilio opened his eyes. “Well,” he said.

Isagani frowned. “Well?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure?”

“Yes.”

It was quiet.

“But do you _want_ to stay here?” Isagani asked.

“Hm,” said Basilio. “Yes. I do.” He yawned. “I like you very much, after all.”

“Oh,” said Isagani.

His chest hurt. He could feel his heart twist, as if someone had taken it out and stretched it apart. It hurt, it actually physically hurt. Basilio will never see him the way Isagani does. He remembered nearly dying out on the streets, right before Basilio saved him, and thought, I’d take that over this. I’d take that over this any day.

“Basilio,” Isagani said very quietly. He feared that if he spoke any louder, the brokenness of his voice would be too evident. “What do you think of me?”

“I just told you,” Basilio said with an exasperated smile. “I like you very much.”

“Well,” Isagani said. “Do you know what I think of you?”

“You think I’m your personal caregiver.”

“Aside from that.”

Basilio turned to him. “You think I’m your closest friend,” he said. “And I think so as well.”

Isagani closed his eyes, and let out a breath.

Did Paulita know, he wondered, that he loved her? If she ever did, did she remember? It was painful to think about her not knowing. It was painful to think that all his poems were nothing. Isagani hoped that she was happy with Juanito, he truly did, but to imagine her not ever looking back on their days together, to forget him completely… he couldn’t bear it.

Isagani looked at the ceiling. He wanted Basilio to know. “Basilio, I love you.”

“Oh, well…” said Basilio. “I love you as well, Isagani.”

“No.” Isagani sat up, and looked at Basilio. “Basilio, I’m in love with you.”

Basilio blinked at him. “Oh.”

There it was again: the knock-knock-knocking of his heart. Rattling endlessly in his chest.

“Please say something,” said Isagani.

Basilio pursed his lips, his brows knotted together. “But I don’t know what to say.”

“What? What is it?” Isagani said. He sat up straighter. “Do you think it’s wrong? Then… then what of Apollo and Hyacinthus? Zeus and Ganymede?”

“Those were gods!” Basilio said, frowning with his eyes wide and panicked. “You and I are human, Isagani.”

“Sappho, then! Alexander and Hephaestion!” said Isagani. He was desperate now, rattling off all the names he could remember. “Hell, even in—even in our own islands, Libulan and Malandok, and—and—“

Basilio put his hand on Isagani’s arm, shaking his head. “To tell you the truth, I don’t find it wrong,” he said. “I’m more rational than that. You know me.”

Isagani grimaced at the floor, fists tightly clenched. Later, his palms would be red. “Then… then, what…”

In truth, he didn’t want to face this, because if Basilio wasn’t saying anything while he didn’t think it was wrong meant that Basilio truly did have no feelings for him. That was always painful to face. Oh, why did he do this in the first place? What was he thinking, why did he have to open his mouth? He’s been hurt in the past, he knew what it was like. He should have stayed silent. He should have stayed safe. He should have—

“—gani. Isagani?”

Basilio was shaking him by his shoulders. Isagani snapped back to reality to find Basilio looking at him with worry and concern.

(Of course Basilio would be worried, Basilio thought Isagani was all he had left. He thought he was his closest friend.

It broke Isagani’s heart.)

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” said Basilio. He slid his hands down from his shoulders. “I just… I just need time to think. Is that okay?”

Isagani averted his eyes down, swallowing the lump in his throat, and nodded. He couldn’t look at him. He knew this was only Basilio’s way of turning him down politely. Basilio was too nice for that.

“I’m sorry,” said Basilio.

“It’s not your fault,” said Isagani. He hated how cracked his voice sounded.

“Please don’t cry—“ Basilio reached out a hand to Isagani’s face, but Isagani heaved himself up before Basilio could touch him, and made a beeline for the door. Damn everything. He hated how he got so emotional. Basilio tried to catch up to him. “Isagani, please, I’m sorry—“

“No,” Isagani snapped. “No, _I’m_ sorry.”

He left Basilio alone in the room. Nenang piped up as he passed by, asking him what was wrong, but he didn’t answer and went straight to the front door, down the hill and through the side of the town, through some thickets and trees until finally he reached a secluded place that showed him the sea.

This was the clearing he once found when he was a child, wandering the forest. Not the beach. Not the cliff where he lived. Basilio or Padre Florentino or Nenang or Tonying would find him in those places and they would talk to him and Isagani didn’t want to talk. Not right now. He needed someplace alone, and quiet. That was this.

Isagani took two heavy breaths, wondering if his spur-of-the-moment decision to run away was the right thing to do. The wind was strong here, where it was on ground higher than his home’s cliff was, and Isagani sunk to the ground with the wind blowing harshly on the trees, his hair, the blades of grass around him.

With still shaking hands, he gathered some fallen leaves into his fist and reached for the line of the sea before letting go and watching the wind whisk the leaves away.

He pictured them as his feelings, everything he felt, flying away from his heart and carried off into the unknown.

 

* * *

 

Of course, things turned strained between them.

At the breakfast table, usually there would be light banter, or a hearty discussion about literature to start the day. But after the incident that had happened between Basilio and Isagani, the breakfast table was much more silent. They didn’t even look at each other; Isagani was too busy with slabbing butter on his bread to look anywhere else, and Basilio had developed a sudden interest in the quality of the wooden panelling on the opposite wall.

Soon enough, Isagani found himself receding, just like he did before. There was less talking, less laughter, and no chess or sungka games at all. He stalked over to his hidden cliff more and more, where the wind was hollow, and the sea still in sight but farther than ever before. At least he was alone.

He wondered, at times, why he would come here. As a child visits to the hidden clearing gave him the peaceful serenity one needed from time to time. But now—he did not know. He had always loved the sea, but Isagani has come to associate the sea with Basilio. Perhaps it was because running away to the ocean was the only thing he knew how to do. Perhaps there was a name for a disease, in which your veins pump in and out a motley rush of all kinds of emotions to your heart.

“Iho,” said Padre Florentino one morning. “I heard Basilio’s going to attend to Manuelito’s injury again today. I think some assistance would be of use to him; why don’t you tag along, ha?”

Isagani shook his head. “I have no knowledge in medicine, Tiyo. I’m sure that any attempt of mine to help him would only become a burden. He would be able to focus more without me there.”

His uncle’s lips fell. “If you say so, Isagani.” Sadness was not a good look on him; it made him look older, and not in a good way at all. Before Isagani could say anything else his uncle turned to leave.

Isagani knew that Padre Florentino was worried. He knew he was trying to figure out what had happened, was trying to bridge interaction between them. His uncle was a soft man, easily brought to tears by the problems of others. Guilt settled into Isagani’s stomach.

One day, Nenang runs into the house in a frenzy, crying out in joy.

“Ay, diyos ko! Ay, dios mio!” she said, barging into the sala where everyone was minding their own business, shaking a small piece of paper in the air. “Padre! Aning! Tonying! Doctor Basilio! Alabanza! _I have finally won the lottery_!”

Padre Florentino, who had stopped playing the harmonium when Nenang came, accidentally banged on a series of shrill notes when he sprung up from his seat in surprise. Basilio lowered the book he had been helping Tonying read. Isagani stood from the armchair to check Nenang’s ticket.

“It’s an exact match. An exact match!” Nenang said.

Tonying stumbled in shock, and Isagani let him lean in to gape at the numbers printed on the paper. “How much did you win?” Isagani asked.

Nenang’s eyes sparkled as she flashed a grin that could light up an opera house. “Twenty _thousand_ pesos.”

Tonying gasped. “No way!”

“Ay, you better believe it, iho,” said Nenang. “After years and years of trying, the prize is finally mine!”

“But what are you going to do with all this money?” Basilio asked. Beside him, Padre Florentino wiped his glasses again and again to ensure he was reading the ticket right. “It’s… just so _much_.”

“Well… that’s something I wanted to talk about,” Nenang said, taking on a more serious tone. Everyone in the room sobered up. “They said that they will be able to give me the money tomorrow. Now, you all know that I have no family in this town…”

“Nenang, no!” cried Tonying, falling forward to grab Nenang’s skirt. “Don’t tell us you’re leaving! We can’t survive without your tinola!”

Nenang laughed. “No, no, I’m not leaving,” she said. “You see, I’ve always put my hopes on the lottery because I have a dream, but I cannot achieve that dream without funds. This is a poor town, and many people such as myself were not lucky enough to receive an education. That’s why…” Nenang’s face lit up, like the Christmas parols they had not yet bothered to take down. “I want to build a school.”

“A school!” said Tonying.

“Yes, iho, a school!” Nenang said. “Where both boys and girls can learn about everything there is to know in the world. Where the futures of all the children in the town will be bright! That’s my dream!”

“A noble dream, Nenita,” said Padre Florentino. His eyes wrinkled with his smile. “We’ll do anything to help you achieve it.”

“I can study too, right?” asked Tonying. “I’m not too old?”

“Of course!” said Nenang. “And with what Doctor Basilio’s been teaching you, you’ll definitely have a head start. Speaking of—a school must have its teachers…” She looked at Basilio, who was still sitting on the settee.

Basilio blinked at her. “I,” he started, a smile growing on his face. “Well, I do enjoy teaching Tonying.”

(It’s been some time since he’s seen Basilio look so happy. Isagani hated the feelings in put into his chest, and turned his head away.)

“Ah, and you, Aning, you too!” said Nenang, taking hold of both of Isagani’s hands. “Whenever I dreamed of my school, you never failed to be absent.”

Isagani raised his brows. “Me?”

Nenang laughed. “Yes, of course you!” she said. “You’re the cleverest boy I know! The children could learn so much.”

Letting his hands fall out of Nenang’s grip, Isagani dropped his gaze to the floor. “I didn’t even finish,” he bit out. “Basilio, at least, had practically already learned all he needed to know.”

“Ay, Isagani,” said Nenang, putting a hand to his face. Behind her, he saw Basilio shift to look at him better. He wondered with a passing thought if he’s only imagining the concern on his face or not. “You know that in our eyes that doesn’t matter. You are still among the most intelligent people in town.”

It matters to me, said Isagani’s bitter mind. But he shook the thoughts away, anyway. The rest didn’t need his self-indulgent self-pity to ruin today’s happy mood. “All right,” he said. “Forgive me. Yes, you’re right. Being a teacher in your school sounds like a great idea.”

“Oh… all right, then,” said Nenang, with some worry in her voice. All worry dissipated quickly. “I’m so happy you think so, Aning! This school is going to be so grand!”

Nenang moved to chat about her plans with Padre Florentino, who listened to her with a smile and his utmost attention. Tonying butted into their conversation every other second, interjecting with his own ideas. Isagani put on a smile as he watched the rest of them chatter on and on, bright-eyed and excited for the future—that is, except Basilio, who was still levelling him with a look of concern. That was the last straw for Isagani; how Basilio was acting like he was still his friend who was supposed to care for him when clearly, something had happened that ruined that between them, was too much for him to bear. Isagani excused himself and left the sala.

When he was just reaching the top of the stairs he heard another set of footsteps follow just behind him, heavy and hurried. He knew right right away to whom they belonged to.

“Isagani—“ said Basilio, “please, wait—“

Isagani reached his room, shutting the door and leaning against it, holding his arms around his frame. Basilio’s hasty footsteps on the staircase stopped, and Isagani knew that Basilio was on the other side.

“Isagani,” Basilio said again. The wood between them humbled his voice, coating distance over his worry.

“I’m not feeling well, that’s all,” Isagani said. “Must be. Must be a headache.” He hated, hated how his voice cracked. “Nothing to fret over.”

“Isagani.” There was an edge to Basilio’s tone, now. Isagani faintly heard him click his tongue, then sigh. He imagined him screwing his eyes shut, frustrated, running a hand through his hair. With a calmer voice, Basilio said, “Please, just let me in?”

Isagani pressed his lips together. “You really should not bother.”

There was a soft thump from the other side of the door. “Please, I just—“ Basilio cut himself off, another frustrated breath—“I just want to talk to you.”

The thing was, Isagani wanted to talk to him, too.

He was a weak man, really; weak to his heart and his love. There was a tiny little part of Isagani’s very core that still longed for the touch of a sweetheart, the whispered confessions in the morning, the sense of security and belonging in another’s arms. Isagani couldn’t help it, he really couldn’t, not when his heart was a pure romantic.

“If your head hurts, I can give you medicine,” Basilio said. “It’s my job.”

So he couldn’t really help it either, when his hands started working to open the door.

Basilio sighed, relieved. “Thank you.” He didn’t say it haughtily or arrogantly; the words came out of his mouth as if he were genuinely grateful that Isagani was letting him in.

“Well, what is it?” Isagani folded his arms across his chest, hoping that he could hide the slight shake of his hands. He wondered what the rest were doing downstairs, if they were pretending that nothing happened or if they were trying to listen in on their conversation from the foot of the stairway. No, hold on, that’s not right. Padre Florentino wouldn’t let Nenang and Tonying do that.

“Nothing, only that—“ Basilio says, shrugging—“I wanted to see if you were okay.”

“I am okay,” said Isagani.

“You should let me help you,” said Basilio.

“I’m fine.”

“Isagani—“

“It’s not about your dropping out, isn't it?” said Basilio, though they both knew it wasn’t a question. “At least, it’s not just that.”

Isagani was silent. He stared down at the floor, fuming. He didn’t want to look at his face.

Basilio stepped closer. His voice turned softer. “What’s wrong?” he said. “You can tell me.”

Isagani looked up, and met Basilio’s kind gaze. Immediately he ducked his head again, drawing his arms tighter around himself. “Please," he said, shutting his eyes, “don't do this.”

Basilio leaned in more, concerned. "Do what?”

“I don’t… I don't want to hope,” said Isagani. He let out a shuddering breath. “Not this time. I’m… afraid.”

“Gani…” said Basilio, frowning.

Isagani let out a weak, broken laugh. “It’s amusing, really,” he said. “I don’t like painful things, and I don’t like these feelings, but—ha! Really, I am an idiot. I find myself hoping that you’ll really take on that teaching job, because at least then you’ll have an actual reason to—“ his voice, his voice was breaking again, for _fuck’s_ sake, “—to stay.”

Basilio’s frown deepened, his brows knitting closer together.

“And—and, well, you already know how pathetic I truly am,” said Isagani. “I assume you remember—no, god damn it, of course you remember—the night. Of the wedding. I was standing there, looking for her, looking at her, even if—even if she was with him, even if my heart was breaking—“

“Gani.” Basilio took hold of Isagani’s arms, his face closer than ever, letting him look at nothing but him. “I already have a reason to stay.”

Isagani’s heart rattled in his ribcage. _Don’t hope. Don’t hope. Don’t hope._ “You are being cruel,” he choked out.

Basilio shook his head, his eyes wide. He looked… he looked— “The only thing I am now is confused.”

Isagani set his palms on Basilio’s chest and pushed him away. “How could you say these things, when you have already shown me that you do not return my feelings? How could you act this way?” Isagani demanded. There was a stinging heat behind his eyes; any time now and he would burst into tears. “Why couldn’t you just leave me alone and let me forget about you in peace? I would be happier if you did!”

Basilio stared at Isagani as if he had just taken out a pistol and threatened to shoot him. “ _What_?” he asked, and he sounded so hurt and wounded and agonized that Isagani was immediately starting to regret what he had said. “What do you mean? What are you _talking_ about?”

“The—the other day,” Isagani said. He was sobbing now, with tears streaming down his face. “You said…”

“I said I would think about it!” cried Basilio, almost pleading.

“Y-Yes, but—“

“I said I would think about it,” Basilio said in a calmer tone. Isagani took off his eyeglasses—ah, that’s right, Basilio gave these to him, didn’t he—to wipe at his tears with his sleeve. Basilio breathed in, and exhaled. “And I have.”

Isagani froze. He looked at Basilio, a few steps away from him, figure blurred by his tears and bare, poor eyes.

Basilio stepped forward—carefully, cautiously, reaching for Isagani’s face with a gentle hand and wiping away his tears with his thumb. “I have thought about it very much. And this is what I want.”

Isagani sniffed. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m trying to say that I love you,” said Basilio, holding both of Isagani’s hands.

Isagani blinked. And blinked. And blinked again. “Oh.”

Basilio let out a chuckle. “Oh.” He sniggered, and Isagani watched him eventually fall into full-blown laughter, light and sunny and bright enough to be infectious, and soon Isagani has dissolved into giggles as well, the previous dramatic tone of the room nowhere to be found.

“I-I’m sorry, Basilio,” said Isagani. “I just—I had just _assumed_ —“

Basilio shushed him, took his spectacles from his hands, and perched them back on his nose. “Misunderstandings happen.” He was doing a nice thing with his thumb and running it over Isagani’s hand in small circles. “The important thing is we clear them up, in the end.”

“Wait,” said Isagani. “Wait.”

“Hm?” said Basilio, with a dreamy, absent smile.

“You,” Isagani started. “You love me.”

Basilio laughed again. “As I have stated.”

“This—it isn’t—“ Isagani blurted out. “If you’re lying to me—“

“Why would I lie to you?” said Basilio. “I want to stay with you and grow old with you and teach the children here with you.”

Isagani couldn’t believe this was happening. “But why?”

“You want to know why?” Basilio asked, his eyes gleaming. “Because you are kind. Because you are intelligent. Because you write beautiful words. Because you want to do good.” The words tumbled out of Basilio’s lips easily, like he had practiced them in his mind again and again. “Because you make things simple. Because you make me feel safe. Because you make me feel secure.”

“I…” said Isagani. No, he couldn’t find the words.

Basilio reached into his pocket, and brought out a handkerchief. He held it in front of Isagani’s face. “Blow your nose,” he said, with a fond look.

Isagani did. “You… want to teach with me?”

“Of course I do,” said Basilio. “I had dreamed of it, once. Back in Santo Tomas.”

Isagani is held up with sympathy already. “Oh, Basilio…”

Basilio shook his head, still smiling. “No, it’s all right. It doesn’t do one well to dwell on what is past. He leaned forward, and continued in an excited whisper, “Can you imagine, Isagani? We can teach them science!” His large eyes shone, a passionate fire behind them. “Biology, physics, and even chemistry! Arithmetic and geography!”

Isagani nodded. “History, and literature,” he said, growing more eager by the second. “Poems and books…”

“And—“ said Basilio— “and Spanish!”

They both smiled.

“It looks like our dream for an Academy of Castilian isn’t so out of reach after all,” said Isagani.

“Indeed,” said Basilio with a laugh. “Then, when we run out of things to teach them—we’ll send them to Manila, to Letran—even the Ateneo—“

“We’ll have doctors and lawyers!”

“Scientists, artists, writers, teachers!”

Isagani couldn’t remember the last time he couldn’t stop smiling. He couldn’t remember the last time he was out breath out of pure excitement alone. He couldn’t remember ever seeing Basilio this enthusiastic, this happy.

(It was a good look on him.)

Basilio took hold of Isagani’s hands again. “Isagani,” he said. “I want to stand by your side. That is, if you’ll have me.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Isagani whispered. “I want to stand by you, as well.”

Basilio smiled, and brought Isagani’s knuckles to his lips.

 

* * *

  

The early morning, that small window of time between night and daybreak, was always quiet. Several minutes prior Isagani had tiptoed his way out of the house, careful not to creak any of the ancient floorboards, as he had done a million times as a child. The rooms were quiet and there was no rustle from the kitchen; he doubted anyone else at home was awake. Now, Isagani stood at the cliff outside his house, facing the open sea with the crisp wind blowing at his hair. Below him, the waves met the rock face of the cliff; if he closed his eyes and listened, it almost sounded like a song. Pushing forward, a rising allegro, then pulling back, receding, the soft notes of a piano, before pushing forward once more. Isagani was an orphan, as a young boy he had no mother to sing to him at night. This was the lullaby of his childhood.

Everything always came back to the sea, really.

Before long he heard the light sound of careful footsteps treading on grass. Isagani looked over his shoulder, surprised. “Good morning, Tiyo.”

His uncle smiled, approaching him with his hands folded behind his back. “Good morning, Isagani.”

“I didn’t think you would be awake at this time,” said Isagani.

“Ah, well you know that I am a light sleeper,” said Padre Florentino, eyes twinkling behind his spectacles. “I heard you sneak out of the house, so I decided to follow you here.”

Isagani blushed, both embarrassed and guilty. “My apologies, Tiyo. I didn’t mean to wake anyone.”

Padre Florentino chuckled. “Ay, iho. You always think that you’re being discreet, whenever you do these things, but you’re really not at all.”

Isagani huffed a laugh. “I really am sorry, Tiyo.”

“Don’t be, anak,” said Padre Florentino. “You know, it’s good that you know how to appreciate God’s gifts to us. People your age take these things for granted too much. Back in my day…” He smiled. “Well, I assume that by now you should know what I would say.”

Isagani smiled back. “The simple things in life, like the breeze or the sea, are often the most beautiful. All that’s needed is for one to pause, and look closer.”

“Well put, Isagani,” said Florentino, moving to watch the waves beside his nephew.

They stood in peaceful silence. At the faraway horizon, the sun crept up above the sea, casting a glistening pillar of light over the ocean.

“Basilio makes you happy, doesn’t he?” Padre Florentino asked.

Isagani froze, his breath getting caught up in his throat. “Pardon?”

“You smile more, with him,” said Padre Florentino. To Isagani’s surprise, there was no punishing severity in his eyes. Instead, his eyes were kind, and the fond smile had never left his face. “You laugh more, with him, too. When there were problems between the two of you, you were so sad. When he’s around… you’re just so happy.”

Was it really that obvious? “I…”

“Am I correct, then?” Padre Florentino asked. “Does he bring you happiness?”

Isagani looked to the sea, his life-long comfort, his first love. He recalled lighthearted jokes exchanged between him and Basilio, a certain easiness he has never quite found with anyone else. He remembered discussing his darkest, most private thoughts with Basilio, and learning of Basilio’s past. He remembered waking up after he had thought he would die and seeing Basilio the moment he had regained consciousness. He remembered sitting on the beach with him. He remembered chess and sungka. How Basilio was always so careful, so thoughtful, how he provided the steadiness and stability Isagani has been lacking.

He remembered Basilio telling him that he loved him. He remembered the feeling of Basilio’s lips grazing the back of his hand.

“He does,” said Isagani, knowing that he has never uttered truer words in his life. “He really does, Tiyo. And I hope that I make him happy, too.”

Padre Florentino smiled. “I want you to know that I’ve always been so proud of you, and that I will always love you,” he said. “And that I wish for happiness wholeheartedly.”

“Tiyo…” said Isagani. “Thank you. That means everything to me.”

Padre Florentino laid a hand on Isagani’s shoulder. “I know that… others will not think the same. But,” he said, “Basilio… he makes you happy. And you make each other better people. That’s enough.”

“Ah, Jesuits,” said Isagani, his voice choking up with incoming tears. There he was again, getting emotional. “Always so progressive.”

The ocean was shining with the sun’s light. There was a school to build, a generation to teach, the future of his country to mold—and now there was Basilio by his side, too.

Tomorrow looked wonderful.

 

* * *

 

Isagani sat at his desk, writing the final word of his latest poem with a precise hand. There. He leaned back in his chair, taking in his newest work as a whole; yes, this would do for now. It wasn’t perfect, not yet, but that was all right. He would get there.

There was a knock at the door. Isagani’s face broke into a grin as Basilio entered his room. “How did it go?”

“Oh, it was really nothing serious,” said Basilio. “Just the common cold. Floring will be fine, Aling Sonya is just too much of a worrywart.”

“That’s good to hear,” said Isagani, placing his pen back in the ink holder. Basilio came round the desk, leaning over from behind him to look at what he’s been working on, while putting an arm around Isagani’s shoulder. Isagani leaned into his touch right away.

“And what’s this?” Basilio asked.

“A new poem,” Isagani replied. “I just finished it, actually.”

Basilio smiled, the way he did whenever he got excited about his poems. “Really? You’ll read it to me, won’t you?” he asked, moving to sit on Isagani’s bed, leaning his head on the wooden post, looking at Isagani like a dream. “What’s it about, anyway?”

Isagani turned in his seat to look at Basilio fully. Across him, the open window let in the song of the waves. He figured—no, he knew, really—that there were stars in his eyes, whenever he looked at him.

“The ocean,” said Isagani.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My gulay :'( We've come to the end, guys! Thank you so much, as always, to my beta and good friend, [acogna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acogna) for supporting me and helping me polish this fic with her knowledge of 19th century history and literary conventions that is more vast than mine. Thank you also to everyone who has stuck with this fic so far - thank you so much! I have so much love for El Fili and these characters, and I will spend my entire life worrying about the fates of Basilio and Isagani. Of course, I had to write this fic to cope. It's very different from what I usually write, and I'm not entirely content with it, but of course no work is perfect, and I've already poured so much of my heart and effort into it, so I love it all the same! Again, thank you to everyone, from the bottom of my heart <3

**Author's Note:**

> You can find my writing blog [@isagayni](http://isagayni.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


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